


Hello Darkness, My Old Friend

by gremlins-came-and-got-me (Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark)



Series: The Journey of the Seven-Tailed Fox [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: At least until The Girl Who Knew Too Much, Canon-Typical Violence, Derek's Past, Gen, Kate Argent mentioned - Freeform, POV Sheriff, Victim Blaming, Warning: Jennifer Blake, mentions of rape/non-con, somewhat canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-06-09 18:53:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15274044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark/pseuds/gremlins-came-and-got-me
Summary: When the darach takes the guardians for sacrifice, it starts with an unexpected victim: Stiles. John will do anything to get his son back. Even team up with the known psychopath Peter Hale.





	Hello Darkness, My Old Friend

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to L for bidding on me during one of the Fandom Cares auctions! Here's the first part of your fic!
> 
> Title is taken from Simon & Garfunkel's Sound of Silence.
> 
> Un-Beta-ed. All mistakes are my own.

~ * ~

John didn’t think it would be like this. He thought once he saw the true face of the darach, he’d know who he was looking at. He didn’t expect to be knocked out and left in the classroom when his son, his only child, has been taken by the very monster he’s been hunting.

Scott is hanging out of the broken window, still shifted, sniffing the air. No offense, Scott, John wants to tell him, but he doesn’t trust the boy’s nose. He’s had thirteen years of Scott’s bedroom to believe that the boy has no sense of smell.

Derek Hale, on the other hand, feet on the ground, sending texts to his phone with updates like _not at the old creamery. checked the cemetery. no new graves._ , John trusts. The boy once walked over a dozen miles when he was a toddler just because John’s neighbor had been grilling out and he could smell the food from his house.

He can’t believe he ever forgot he used to know that the Hales were something.

He can’t believe that it’s taken so long for him to know again. Stiles had tried to tell him, but John never was good at listening to his son, was he?

His phone buzzes again. Derek again. _i don’t know where it is, but maybe the root cellar?_

The root cellar? John muses. What root cellar? His thumb hovers over the reply button while he thinks, but then his phone buzzes again. This time an unknown number.

 _I know how to find Stiles._ it says.

 _How_ John sends back.

_Unlock my memories and I’ll take you._

_To the root cellar?_

_To the Nemeton._

“Scott, what’s a ‘Nemeton’?” John asks. Scott crawls back inside, shaking the water from his hair like an actual dog.

“The what’s it now?” he says, digging a sharp fingernail into his ear.

“The ‘Nemeton.’”

“Oh that. It’s like the life-force of the forest or something like that. Apparently druids worship it. Did you know that ‘darach’ translates to ‘dark oak’? Like, the darach is literally a dark druid?”

John grits his teeth. “No, Scott, I didn’t know that. Why would I know that when none of you share this information with me?” Except Stiles. Who hadn’t even tried to share the last year of his life before today.

“Oh, oops?”

John’s phone buzzes before he can respond to that.

_Tick tock, Sheriff._

John doesn’t appreciate the reminder. He taps out a reply. _Meet me at the vet’s place._

If there’s anything John has learned in the last six months, it’s that nothing in this goddamn town happens that Deaton-I’m-only-a-veterinarian doesn’t know about.

_Make sure he doesn’t have the mountain ash barrier up._

“Scott. We’re going to the clinic. Come on.”

~ * ~

Deaton looks unruffled when he throws open his door, a pointed glance to his sign. He sighs when John rips it down and throws it into a corner.

And then Peter Hale of all people strolls out of the back room, Derek on his heels. Derek has a wooden box clutched to his chest, mulish and angry lines around his taut mouth. John tries to appreciate that Derek was at the hospital with his sister before Lydia screamed and Stiles was taken.

“How do we find the Nemeton?” John asks when no one speaks.

Peter grins, grabbing a chair and sitting on it backward so that he can rest his arms on it. He rolls his shoulders. “It’s easy,” he almost purrs. “You unlock my memories and I tell you how to find it.”

Derek rattles the box. “I should be the one,” he says. “Peter, you know I don’t know how to alter memories.”

“You did it once before,” Peter says, not unkindly.

“On accident and when I was poisoned,” Derek retorts. He rattles the box again. “I don’t trust Deaton. If he’s a druid, then he knows where the Nemeton is. Why can’t he tell us?”

Deaton doesn’t answer. Instead he pulls open a drawer and sets out a tray of scalpels.

“There are two ways to do the ritual,” he says evenly. “One: an alpha needs to insert their claws into the back of the neck and find the information. Or two: the alpha that altered the memory needs to undo it.”

“That’s going to be difficult,” Peter says. “Talia, my sister, was the one who altered my memories, and as we all know, she is no longer with us.”

Derek opens his box, setting the lid aside with a soft thump. He rattles the contents again before pouring them out into his hand.

“Are those…?” Scott swallows hard at the talons set in Derek’s palm.

“These were all that was recovered of my mother after the fire,” Derek says. He turns the lid over and carefully sets, one by one, each of the talons—claws, John realizes—tip-down into it. “I still think Peter should do it. We both knew where the Nemeton was before my mother took the memories of it from us.”

“I have more that I want unlocked,” Peter says. He lifts the shirt from his neck, exposing a line of unblemished skin. “Do it now. Don’t give that bitch more time with Stiles.”

Derek nods, lifting his left hand and slamming it down onto the claws. He pulls his hand back with a cry, and John feels a sick fascination when the claws come with him.

Derek spins, slamming his right hand onto Peter’s shoulder. “Ready?” he asks, voice low, affected. He doesn’t give Peter a chance to respond before he stabs the claws into his neck. Peter howls, thrashing against Derek’s grip, but Derek’s eyes are red, Peter’s are blue.

John thinks that means Derek is stronger than Peter. An alpha, Deaton had said.

Agonizing minutes tick by while Derek keeps his mother’s claws in his uncle’s neck. Blood wells around the wounds, running down in thin rivulets, staining Peter’s white shirt crimson.

Finally, Derek pulls back with a grunt, the claws lifting with a slick sound out of Peter, who slumps with a soft whine. Derek hisses as he pulls the claws out of his fingers.

“Was it successful?” John asks.

“I think so,” Derek says. When he glances at John, his eyes are hazel. Human. “I saw it. Even if Peter can’t remember, I know where to go.” He drops the claws into the box and seals it again. Then, he grabs a gauze pad and wipes the blood from Peter’s neck. The wounds are healing right before their eyes. Derek presses his thumb against the largest, eyes going red again. When he moves his thumb, the wound is completely healed.

Peter sits up, rocking his head side to side to crack his neck. His eyes are still blue, and he grins with sharp teeth before lunging up, latching onto Derek’s neck.

“No, hey!” Scott yells, darting in with his own yellow eyes and sharp teeth and claws. He manages to tear Peter’s jaw off Derek, but half of Derek’s throat goes with it.

Derek claps a hand over his spurting neck, eyes flickering from red to hazel to red.

Peter’s eyes turn red, but they flicker like Derek’s, and John can see that they’re trading off the red eyes, the alpha power.

Derek’s eyes stay red less and less and Peter’s longer until Peter stands with red eyes and Derek, sunk onto the floor, still clutching his bleeding neck, watches him warily with human eyes.

“I win, nephew,” Peter says.

“Wait!” Scott shouts, crouching between them. “Don’t kill him!”

John unhooks his holster and eases his service weapon out. Peter’s ear flicks toward him, but he seems unconcerned with him. Good.

“Why shouldn’t I kill him?” Peter says, admiring his claws. He turns a dispassionate eye to Derek. “After all, he killed me, remember?”

“Yeah, but that was after you killed Laura.”

“Laura abandoned me! Derek abandoned me.”

Derek shakes his head. His voice, when he speaks, is a low croak, and John strains his ears to hear. “I had no choice. My alpha ordered me.”

“Laura chose the destructor of our family over her remaining kin. That’s not something I can forgive either of you for. Step aside, Scott. Let me dispatch this traitor.”

“You wanted him in your pack once,” Scott protests.

John knows there have been odd things happening in this town for a long time. Apparently Scott has been in the thick of it for a while now. And where Scott goes, Stiles does too. A year, Stiles had said. A _year_ of this.

John turns to Derek, seeing not a victim bleeding out, but a man capable of manipulating the situation, of manipulating his son.

“Move, Scott,” he says coldly.

Scott looks at him in confusion.

“Move and let Peter kill him. Or I’ll do it myself.”

Derek’s eyes widen, and he rolls onto his belly, using his arms to pull himself toward the back room.

“Why are you focusing on Derek?” Scott asks. “Derek didn’t take Stiles; the darach did.”

His words splash over John, freezing him in his steps. He looks back to Peter, wondering what makes him different from Derek.

Maybe those months of trying to find Derek and prove he killed all those people is clouding his judgment. Derek hadn’t been the murderer then, and Scott’s right that Derek isn’t the murderer now. And maybe Derek isn’t the manipulator. Maybe Peter is.

John swings his gun up, pointing it dead center between Peter’s eyes.

“Sheriff,” Peter says, voice like honey, eyes burning bright, teeth gleaming with saliva.

Suddenly, Deaton stabs a syringe into Peter’s neck, depressing the plunger, and stepping back from the sweeping claws that try to eviscerate him.

“What did you do to me?!” Peter roars. He manages two steps before he collapses. He’s not unconscious; his eyes follow Deaton as he steps around him to tend to Derek, wrapping a bundle of herbs against his throat and taping it there.

“Derek knows where the Nemeton is,” Deaton says. “Go, find Stiles. Stop the darach before it can complete its plan.” He tosses something to Scott. A set of keys. Deaton lifts Derek and braces his arm over his shoulders.

Outside, Scott beelines for a sleek black Camaro. Derek’s car. John hasn’t seen this vehicle in ages. Last he knew, Derek was driving a sturdy Toyota FJ Cruiser with shit speed and shit mileage. Derek still managed to be ticketed in it—mostly for illegal parking.

Scott opens a door and pulls the seat forward. Deaton shoves Derek into the back, pressing another bundle of herbs into Scott’s hand.

“Do you know how to drive this thing?” John demands, climbing into the passenger seat because Scott already took the driver’s seat.

“Yep,” Scott says. “Derek taught me.”

“When?”

“Last year? I don’t know. When you were chasing him and the Argents were here.”

“Was Stiles with you?”

“Stiles is always with me,” Scott says solemnly. He cranks on the engine and roars out of the parking lot.

John twists in his seat. It’s almost too dark for him to see, but he can make out Derek huddled, one hand on his neck, the other braced against the back of John’s seat.

“Did you ever hurt Stiles?” John asks.

Derek doesn’t answer except to say, “Take a right on Wilson. We’re going out into the preserve.”

The rest of the drive is silent. Sometime around the tenth minute, Derek unwinds the bandage from his neck and accepts the herbs that Scott passes back to him.

“If I ever find out that you did hurt Stiles,” John says, “I will kill you.”

“Noted,” Derek says. “Take a left before the chain. There’s an access road that’ll take you around the property. The Nemeton is about five miles in from the farthest border of my parents’ property. You can keep driving. There used to be another property out there. The road is there, but it probably hasn’t been trimmed since my family died.”

“Can I ask a question?” Scott tightens his hands on the steering wheel. Gearing himself up for something.

“Me or him?” Derek asks.

“You.”

“Go for it.”

Scott draws in a deep breath. “What did Peter mean when he said Laura abandoned him?”

“When Laura became the alpha, she had to make a choice: stay in the territory with the threat that had just killed our family or leave with what she could salvage.” Derek’s throat clicks when he swallows, just a hair too wet, the tissue not fully healed but definitely better than it was at the vet office. “Peter wasn’t healing. He wasn’t responding to any stimuli. He was declared brain dead and unable to recover.” Quiet, almost too quiet to be heard over the vehicle crashing through the undergrowth, Derek adds, “He was supposed to be unplugged from life support when we crossed the border.” Louder, he says, “Laura chose New York because my dad was originally from there and had family out that way. She thought it’d be a new start, and she ordered me to never return to California. Scott, you know about the compulsions your alpha puts on you. You know that I couldn’t disobey her to go back even when word of Peter’s death never came.”

“What compulsions does an alpha usually have?” John asks.

“Usually? They want proof that you’re in their pack. Peter wanted Scott to kill for him.”

John turns toward Scott, noting that the boy refuses to make eye contact, all too happy to use the excuse of driving. “ _Peter Hale_ was your alpha?”

“Yes, no, yeah,” Scott says. “Look, Peter bit me and he sure as frick tried to get me to join his pack, but I was never a part of it. Derek was, though.”

“For a little while,” Derek admits. “I needed the protection because without it, I was becoming an omega, and no other werewolf is as vulnerable as an omega. I also wanted to keep closer tabs on him. Being part of his pack allowed me to form bonds with him.”

“But you betrayed him again,” Scott says. “You killed him for the alpha power.”

“At that point, Peter was no longer part of my pack. Surely you knew that when I helped you defend Allison?”

“I don’t know,” Scott says, frustrated. John would rather get where they’re going alive, so he pats at Scott’s arm, hoping it calms him down.

It must work because Scott’s shoulders drop and he shakes his head quickly, focusing again on the mostly-overgrown path. In the headlights, John can see where a road used to be, but like Derek said, it’s been years since anyone was out this way. He’s surprised that the Camaro is able to handle the brush as well as it is.

And that’s when it goes to shit.

Derek yells, “Watch out!” as a deer jumps onto the hood and halfway through the windshield, while Scott turns the steering wheel, and the car slides off the road and into a tree. John doesn’t have time to register the pain before a flailing hoof hits his temple and he slumps in his seat.

~ * ~

He wakes up soaking wet, hanging half out of the passenger window while Scott pushes at his lower body and Derek holds his upper body.

“Oh, good, you’re alive,” Scott says when he notices that John is moving. Derek grunts in annoyance, and John has to agree.

“I may not know much about werewolves,” he says, flinching at the echo it causes in his skull, “but I do know that even you, Scott, can tell when someone is alive.”

“I doubt it,” Derek says. “Scott isn’t always the brightest when it comes to instinct.”

As if to prove how smart he is, Scott drops John’s legs and huffs. “Do you really think we should be moving an injured person?”

Derek leans in the window with John and smacks the back of Scott’s head. “Do you want to wait around for the darach to come back?” he asks. “No? Then grab his legs and fucking help me.” Under his breath, he mutters something about Scott lacking the distinct qualities that make a good werewolf.

“If I’m not a good werewolf, why did Peter bite me?” Scott demands.

“There’s not a day that goes by that Peter doesn’t regret biting you instead of Stiles.”

“You’re lucky that I don’t want power, that I don’t want to be the alpha. Otherwise I would have killed you for your power.”

Derek flashes his eyes and they’re just as blue as when Peter ripped his throat out. “I don’t have the alpha power, dumbass,” he says. He pulls John out by himself, setting him on his feet, and inspecting his head. “You’ll live,” he declares, running a hand down John’s arm. The woozy feeling subsides with the pain. “The Nemeton isn’t too much farther. I think the darach sent that deer. She was watching us right after we crashed.”

“How convenient,” Scott says, climbing out of the vehicle too, “that you were the only one who saw her. What did she look like?”

“Your English teacher.”

John thinks he detects a blush. It’s hard to tell. It’s completely dark now, even the headlights out. The only light available to them is the lighting from the incoming storm.

“My English teacher?” Scott asks, incredulous. “Ms. Blake?”

“Yes,” Derek says tightly. “Ms. Blake. Jennifer Blake. I think she’s the darach. I think she’s the one killing people.”

“The one you’re sleeping with?” Scott demands. “That Ms. Blake?”

John whirls on Derek, gun out. His head swims a bit, but Derek swipes his hand down his arm again, looking annoyed to be held at gunpoint again.

“Are you really involved with the suspect?” John asks.

“She wasn’t a suspect then,” Derek says. His eyes shutter, and he looks ashamed, sick to his stomach. Quietly, he adds, “I think she affected me. She used something on me.” Derek’s eyes flick up, catching on Scott’s. “Like when Lydia drugged me,” he says softly.

“Wait,” John says, looking between the two men—boys. They’re both boys despite Scott standing seventeen to Derek’s twenty-two. “Lydia? Lydia Martin? _Lydia Martin drugged you?_ The girl attacked by the darach?”

Derek nods. “She was under the influence of my uncle at the time,” he says. “I’m trying not to hold it against her.” He winces, some memory sitting distasteful on his tongue. Derek seems to have a lot of those for one so young.

“So we shouldn’t hold you fucking around with Ms. Blake against you?” Scott demands. “You made your choice. It wasn’t to help us.”

“I’m here,” Derek says, frustrated. “I’m not going to let her get inside my head again.” He fixes John with a steady gaze. “I’m not going to let her kill Stiles.”

John holsters his weapon. “No,” he agrees. “You’re not. Let’s stop wasting time and get my son back.”

“This way,” Derek says, heading northeast through the dense undergrowth. John waves Scott ahead. As much as he hates having a couple of kids for backup, he hates leaving his son alone with an unknown subject who already has nine confirmed kills even more.

He follows steadily, seizing the spark of anger and blowing oxygen on it, feeding it into a blaze that roars within his chest. If this darach, this Jennifer Blake, has harmed one hair on Stiles’ head, John won’t be sheriff anymore no matter the voters’ ballots. He’ll be sitting on death row, Jennifer Blake’s blood painted on his soul.

John finds he doesn’t mind the idea as much as he might have even a few weeks ago. In fact, he’s looking forward to putting a bullet between her eyes.

~ * ~

“There,” Derek whispers, stopping Scott with a light touch. John pulls out his weapon. They’ve been walking for nearly twenty minutes. As silent as Derek had been, Scott had stepped on every twig he could find, and John doesn’t doubt the darach already knows they’re here.

“Do you see that stump?” Derek points at the remains of a tree. The base is wider than Derek’s Camaro, and even though it’s been cut near the roots, the stump reaches nearly waist high.

“This is the Nemeton?” John asks. Derek nods, pointing toward a trap door off to the right of the stump.

Stiles is underground. Probably right under their feet if the root system has anything to say about it.

John wonders where the darach is as he flips the safety off his pistol.

Derek unsheathes his claws, shaking his head until his face changes, pinched into an animalist mask. It has a kind of raw beauty too, John thinks. Scott lets his true face melt into his werewolf side, and John thinks, almost helplessly, that Scott looks like a baby next to Derek’s battle-weary stance.

“Oh, how delightful,” a voice says behind them. “More sacrifices. The guardians of the town and the supernatural. My collection is complete.”

John turns to find a pretty brunette staring him down, a hunger in her eyes that makes his gut clench. Here is a woman not afraid to stain her hands with the blood of innocents.

“Jennifer,” Derek says around a mouthful of sharp teeth. “Where is Stiles?”

Jennifer slides her eyes from John to Derek, and her gaze softens. If John didn’t know better, he’d say she’s looking at Derek with love.

“He’s where I need him to be,” she says, smiling brightly. “Derek, I’m so glad you were able to make it.”

Derek shudders, almost imperceptibly. He’s not as happy as she is.

“I was wondering when you’d put the pieces together.” She throws her arms out wide, and a fine black powder falls from her fingers, forming a circle around her. Just in time too, because Derek launches himself at her, landing in front of the circle, clawed hands pressed against the air in front of her throat, eyes blue, fangs snapping. The only thing stopping him is the powder.

“Mountain ash,” Scott explains. “It stops werewolves from crossing a line.” He turns an assessing look at John. “Humans can break it. It’s based on belief. At least, Deaton said it was. He had Stiles make a barrier with it once.”

Derek gives one last thump against the barrier in front of Jennifer’s face. He turns away, snarling with a human face and human eyes. “If she didn’t put mountain ash down around the Nemeton, we should be able to rescue Stiles.” He won’t meet John’s eyes when he says, “I can smell his blood and pain. She hurt him.”

“I just needed a little blood,” Jennifer says cheerily. “I’m sure you know how rituals go.” She’s enjoying this, the bitch. John doesn’t care what happens. He’s going to kill her.

“Make sure my son is okay,” he tells Scott. Scott scurries to the trap door and throws it open. Derek looks torn between following Scott or following John.

John points his gun at Jennifer’s head. “Bet that mountain ash can’t stop a bullet,” he tells her.

She barely bats an eye, one hand raised, the other twitching by her side. “Derek,” she calls, “be a sweetheart and kill the Sheriff for me.”

John turns to find Derek, eyes blazing blue. “No,” he says, voice trembling. “I won’t.” Jennifer extends her fingers, and Derek raises clawed hands. “No,” he repeats, weaker. “Please, no. Don’t make me do this.”

Disgust wells up in John’s chest. Of course Derek would be weak, he thinks, snorting derisively. He can’t be trusted around women. Just look what Kate Argent had done to his family, and Derek had given her the information she needed. Hell, it wouldn’t surprise John a bit if Derek had been fucking Kate too.

The fact that Derek would have been sixteen to Kate’s mid-twenties doesn’t faze him. He and Claudia had fooled around a bit before they were legal too. It wasn’t as big of a deal as the law made it seem.

For all Derek’s begging, it doesn’t appear that Jennifer has a clean grip on him, so John lines up his sight, takes his shot, and hits Derek square in the chest.

The pain flips him back to human, and he stumbles backward, dropping to the forest floor, hands pressed to the bloody hole just below his heart.

Once that’s taken care of, John aims back at Jennifer. She hasn’t moved, but at least her smug expression has faded into something more akin to worry.

“I’m going to kill you,” John tells her. “And I am going enjoy it.”

“You can’t stop me,” she says. “I need the power I have to stop the alpha pack. If you kill me, who will stop them?”

John steps up to the barrier, passing through it. Jennifer moves back, closer to the edge of her protection. She can’t escape his gun, and this close, Derek can’t jump between them again.

“I’m going to kill you,” he says again, feeling something dark take hold of his heart and squeeze. “For every drop of blood you spilled, from my son and all the other victims, I am going to make you feel every inch of pain.” He takes one more step forward, and Jennifer matches him. It takes her past the mountain ash line.

A clawed hand reaches around her throat, tearing it free, the spray of blood splashing over John’s skin and soaking into his clothing.

Jennifer gurgles, gasping wetly before she falls, eyes open wide as her last breath rattles free.

Peter flicks his claws at her, kneeling down to wipe his hand clean on her shirt. “Too slow, Sheriff,” he remarks idly, as if he’s commenting on the weather, the storm clouds still rolling in, thunder now audible.

“I wanted her to suffer,” John says, feeling that darkness around his heart squeezing again. “I wanted to watch her suffer. I wanted to cause it.” He forces himself to holster his weapon, eyeing Peter with distaste as he drags Jennifer’s body to the still-open trapdoor, tipping it down into the hole.

Scott and Stiles, pale, bloodied Stiles, stand off to the side, arms around each other.

“Dad?” Stiles asks shakily. “What’s going on?”

“The darach is dead,” Peter answers. “You’re welcome.” He flashes his eyes at Stiles, and Stiles stares at him in horror, a soft, “Oh fuck,” escaping.

He turns to stare at Derek, standing off to the side. The gunshot wound has healed, but there is still a hole in his shirt from it. “Show me your eyes,” he commands, and Derek obediently lets his eyes change.

“How is that possible?” Stiles asks, limping to Derek, grabbing his face, and turning it this way and that, examining his eyes. “Why are your eyes blue again? How did Peter become an alpha again?”

“We really should get to shelter,” Peter says. As if to punctuate his words, a thunderclap booms above them.

“The Camaro is toast,” Scott says. “Did you happen to bring a ride?”

Peter shrugs. “I had no need.”

“I brought something,” Deaton says, and his appearance is far more startling and unsettling than Peter’s. “Just let me bind the powers Ms. Blake collected to the Nemeton so that no one else can use them.”

“You mean so you won’t be tempted,” Peter says. “Face it, Alan, you’re the only other druid in these parts. If the powers are bound, then you won’t be tempted and you can keep playing your little morality game.”

Deaton fixes him with an unimpressed stare. “I am not,” he says, voice betraying little of the fury he must be feeling, “the only druid in these parts, and certainly I won’t be when the Nemeton wakes from the raw energy you poured down onto her roots.”

Stiles snaps his fingers. “You mean like Morrell? She’s the other emissary in the area, right? And if she gets the power, then it’s game over, gone-zo for all of us.”

“She’s not getting the power because I am going to bind it. Now shush.”

Deaton moves quickly, sprinkling purple powder all around ground and the tree stump. Derek steps back, eyeing the powder with an undercurrent of fear in his eyes.

Unbidden, a thought springs into John’s mind: Derek Hale is chaos personified. He grasps that thought with both hands, feeling the surety and the weight of it settling in his heart, soothing the darkness that ticks with a _later-later-later_ beat. It will be so satisfying to rile the boy, to draw out the pain he keeps inside and make him share the delicious suffering he carries.

Peter looks at John with a knowing smirk. “You feel it too, then?” he asks. “The darkness that holds your heart, that loves you when no one else will?”

Faintly, John hears someone whisper, “Let me in,” but the werewolves don’t react, so he thinks it’s like the thought: in his mind.

“Jennifer was right, though,” Derek says quietly, almost like he doesn’t want to be the one to say this. “Who will stop the alpha pack? We’ve gone up against them multiple times and have always just barely been able to run away. I’ve lost my pack and my alpha power.” He glances at Peter, and he shrugs unconcerned.

“Deaton?” Scott begins, and Deaton shakes his head.

“I will not. The things she was doing, the magic she was trying to possess.” He purses his lips. “It’s unnatural, like trying to make a river flow backward or have rain fall up into the sky. It’s against the course of nature. I will not become like her.”

“Suit me up then,” Stiles offers.

“Absolutely not,” John snaps. He grabs Stiles and pulls him into a tight hug. “You are not being endangered like that.” He pulls back. “I think Dr. Deaton knows a few ways of killing werewolves that involve less ritualistic sacrifices and more results.”

“I do,” Deaton confirms. “I’m done binding the power now anyway.” He leads them to an SVU reminiscent of Derek’s Toyota: ugly but durable.

“Shotgun,” Peter says. No one fights him for it.

Deaton drives while Derek climbs into the trunk, hunkering down like he’s expecting to be hit. Scott, Stiles, and John pile into the middle seats.

Peter turns in his seat. He nods toward Stiles.

“What do you want?” Stiles asks tiredly.

“I wanted to offer you the bite again,” Peter says. He cuts a quick glance to John. “That is, if you’d like?”

“Why me?” Stiles returns. “Why not, say, my dad?”

John narrows his eyes at Peter. “What do you want with my son?” he demands. Peter holds up his hands.

“Have you met your son?” he says, smiling. “Stiles is brilliant, smart, instinctual. He’d make a good werewolf. If he wants.”

“I’m perfectly fine being human,” Stiles says. “We both are, right, Dad?”

“Of course,” John says, unsure why that feels like a lie. Derek’s head shoots up, and he frowns at John. “Someone’s gotta be the humanity of this town.” The joke falls flat, but John revels in the quiet it sparks.

At the edge of the preserve, Deaton speaks up. “We’re going to Beacon Memorial to get Stiles checked out. Then, I will arm you with as many weapons against the alpha pack as I can without endangering my morality, as you so succinctly put it, Mr. Hale.”

“And how long do we have before the alpha pack attacks again?” Stiles asks.

“About two days,” Scott answers. “The next full moon.”

“We’ll have to move fast,” Peter says. “Two days is a long time to let Deucalion and the others realize that the darach is already dead. If they know, they’ll mobilize. This whole town could turn red with the blood they’ll spill. And they’ll start with us.”

“I think they already have,” Derek says, pointing. Deaton slams on the brakes. In the middle of the road, cane tapping against the wet pavement, a man walks toward the vehicle. Deaton shifts to reverse, but before he can floor it, the rear windshield shatters.

Scott ducks over Stiles, protecting him from shrapnel. Derek roars, claws and teeth at the ready. John sights his gun. But, there is nothing to see. Even the man in front of them is gone.

“Drive,” Peter says, tersely. “Drive before they come back.”

They make it twenty-seven yards before something slams into the SVU knocking it off the road. It rolls down an embankment, turning end over end, the occupants all thrown about too. The windows break, the roof crumples. Screams of pain, bones breaking, metal shrieking, and then silence.

Nothing but blood pooling under him. John’s gun is gone. So is Derek. Stiles and Scott are tangled together, Stiles’ elbow through Scott’s gut. Deaton slumped against his missing window, Peter pinned between the dash and the roof.

John can’t move, can’t feel his body. All he can do is listen to the rain and pray that whatever hit them doesn’t come back.

It’s not a good strategy, but it’s all he’s got.

He closes his eyes to rest for a second. He doesn’t think he’ll wake up.

The darkness around his heart agrees.

~ End Part One ~

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted at [my Tumblr](http://1989dreamer.tumblr.com/post/175842080370/the-journey-of-the-seven-tailed-fox-hello).


End file.
